


Watch Over Me

by picturestoproveit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturestoproveit/pseuds/picturestoproveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly can't shake the feeling that she isn't alone on her way home from work…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch Over Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a little six sentence, tumblr prompt fill. It, um, got away from me a bit.

She dashed into the small cafe, sliding through the swinging glass doors with flushed cheeks and a thudding heart. Pressing a small hand firmly to her sternum, Molly Hooper closed her eyes and took in several noisy gulps of air as she attempted to steady herself.

Her breathing and heart rate began to slow as she took in her surroundings. _Lost him,_ she thought, relief washing through her body, her muscles releasing some of the tension she had been carrying ever since she left work. She took another slow, fortifying breath and sat down at a nearby table, the events of the last few days racing through her mind.

At first, she had chalked it up to paranoia. After all, it wasn’t everyday that one’s murderously psychotic, presumably dead, ex… _whatever…_ sent threatening electronic messages from beyond the grave. So it was only natural that in the first few days following Jim’s “return”, she couldn’t help but feel like she was being watched.

Watched and followed, to be more specific.

The rational part of her brain attempted to soothe her frayed nerves. _It was just someone’s idea of a practical joke. Moriarty is dead. Even if he weren’t, why would he come after you? You’re really not_ that _important, Molly._

The rational part of her brain could be a bit of a cock, actually.

But as the week stretched on, Molly found that she simply couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following her home. She kept catching glimpses, flashes really, in her periphery - furtive movements that caused her head to whip around around on more than one occasion, only to gaze upon empty corridors and bare sidewalks.

This evening, however, had been the last straw. She had worked late, not clocking out until well past ten o’clock. The street was dark and practically deserted when Molly stepped out of the side door of Barts. She had debated taking a cab for split-second, before visions of those serial suicides and Jim Moriarty in a cabbies hat flooded her thoughts. So instead, she had drawn shaky breath and proceeded to speed walk to the nearest tube station, as quickly as her short legs could manage.

Ten minutes later, Molly was practically at the entrance of St. Paul’s Station when she had heard it –the unmistakable sound of crunching glass beneath a footfall. She had spun around impulsively, just in time to catch a glimpse of a dark figure dashing into a nearby alley.

 _Done,_ she had thought, panic rising in her throat. _I’m done._

So she took off, sprinting away from the station and onto the main street. She had frantically woven her way through the light Friday night crowds before diving into the small café, earning her more than her fair share of curious glances from the university aged patrons.

Molly waited nearly an hour at the café, plotting her next move. Though she knew she was being followed for certain now, she was still hesitant to phone the police. Even in the face of real danger, Molly Hooper still didn’t want to kick up a fuss.

 _You’re really not worth the aggravation, Molly, and you know it,_ her rational, bag-of-dicks brain hissed.

Yet returning to her flat was not really the smartest move, either. If she had been followed, then that person certainly knew where she lived, and more importantly, that she lived alone. And if that person were Jim Moriarty, then he knew _exactly_ where she lived, where she slept, where she kept her 22-caliber pistol…

No, home wasn’t an option, she realized, hot tears springing to her eyes.

  _I’ll call Greg,_ she conceded. It was slightly more discreet than dialing 999, to be sure, but knowing Greg…well, he would probably send half of NSY to her flat before she even had a chance to hang up the phone. Molly sniffled and sighed, swiping at her tears with one hand as the other dug through her bag for her mobile.

And dug. And dug some more.

Molly emptied the insides of the overstuffed bag onto the table, sifting through the contents, quickly moving on to frantically patting her pockets. No mobile. Then she groaned as she remembered exactly where she had left it – on her desk at Barts, still plugged in to the charger next to her computer.

_God. Damn. It._

She considered asking someone if she could borrow his or her phone, before realizing that she didn’t have Greg’s number memorized. Molly sighed miserably, and slowly returned her belongings to her bag. There was really only one more option, and it was _truly_ her last resort. She stood and carefully made her way out through the café doors, pausing on the sidewalk to examine the street cautiously. It was quiet, and there didn’t appear to be any outward signs of her “companion”, though that observation did little to quell her anxiety.

_Well, if he’s out here,_ she thought wearily, _then he’s just going to have to follow me all the way to Baker Street._

***************************************************************************************************************

Molly could hear the muffled shouting before she even pushed her way through the heavy black door of 221B.

“Oh, dear, Molly, thank goodness,” Mrs. Hudson fretted as Molly stepped through the threshold. Molly furrowed her brow at the nervous landlady. “Mrs. Hudson, what’s going on?” she queried. More shouting drifted down the worn staircase, accompanied by occasional bangs and crashes. Mrs. Hudson winced.

“He’s been carrying on like that for over an _hour_ now,” the landlady vexed. “He won’t tell me what the matter is, and he’s already thrown me out of the flat twice. It’s a miracle the neighbours haven’t phoned the police yet, though I’m thinking of doing it myself!” Mrs. Hudson took a breath. “John is on his way, apparently, but please, Molly, you have to calm him down,” she pleaded. She dropped her voice. “I think it’s the drugs again,” she whispered hoarsely.

 _Smashing,_ Molly thought exasperatedly. _This is exactly what I need right now._ She climbed the stairs cautiously, and the shouting became clearer the closer she got to the landing.

“HOW many times do I have to say it, Lestrade? _Saint. Paul’s. Station._ YES…yes, no – NO. NO. For the love of GOD, is it a Scotland Yard requirement that your officers possess the common sense of a primary school child, or is that just a bonus?”

Molly peered through the open door with caution. There was Sherlock, pacing frantically in front of the windows, his mobile pressed firmly to his ear.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T STOP THE TRAINS?” he practically roared into the phone. “Tell me, exactly, what good does it do me to keep you around if you can’t even execute a SIMPLE REQUEST? ...oh, REALLY. And exactly HOW HARD is it to shut the tube system down? You’re the police, for god sakes!”

Molly cleared her throat and knocked sharply on the doorframe. “Sherlock?” she called out cautiously. Sherlock barely looked up. “Not now, Molly,” he snapped, “I’m in the middle of instructing Scotland Yard on how to do their-“

He stopped mid-sentence and turned. He stared at her in stunned silence. Confusion welled in Molly’s chest.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” she asked, her heart hammering. In all the years she had known him, Molly had witnessed the many, many facets and emotions of Sherlock Holmes. She had seen him happy, angry, sad, lonely, malicious, _high as a fucking kite._ But she had never, ever seen him the way she was seeing him now.

Panicked. Terrified. Frantic.

Sherlock took a tentative step forward and abruptly stopped. “Open your coat,” he demanded, the fear in his eyes now mingled with a curious combination of relief and distrust.

Molly gaped at him. “S- _Sorry?”_ she stammered. _Oh God, maybe he is high,_ she thought wildly. 

“Open your coat. Do it now. Molly, please,” he pleaded, the frantic edge in his voice sending chills through her veins. Molly complied, quickly undoing the zip of her parka and holding her arms out to her sides when she finished.

“Sherlock, what is this all ab-“

“Take it off.”

“Wha… _EXCUSE me??”_

“The coat. Take it off. Drop it on the floor. NOW Molly.”

His panic was contagious. Molly struggled for breath as she shrugged out of her coat, letting it fall to the ground in a soft heap around her legs.

“Turn around. In a circle.”

Molly stopped asking questions and just followed his directions, which in all honesty, was really her default setting when it came to dealing with Sherlock Holmes.  She turned slowly in place, holding her arms stiffly away from her body. She stopped when she completed her circle. She met his eyes, silently pleading with him to explain.

Sherlock crossed the room quickly, and grabbed her roughly by her upper arms. “Were you taken?” he barked, shaking her very slightly. Molly simply stared at him, once again stunned into silence. He shook her again, this time with a bit more force. Molly gasped and winced.

“Were you TAKEN?” he repeatedly forcefully. “Did he get you? Molly, ANSWER ME.” In his panicked state, he squeezed her arms with more strength than he probably intended to use, and Molly finally cried out.

“Sherlock, NO! No, no one took me! I’m FINE!” Molly shrieked. “Please, you’re- ow, Sherlock, let GO, you’re HURTING me –“

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he finally released his grip on her, staggering backward. Molly’s hands involuntarily flew to her upper arms and she rubbed vigorously, her heart in her throat and her breaths coming out in short bursts.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and Molly watched as the panic on Sherlock’s face was replaced with intense relief. Her eyes prickled with tears when she realized that _she_ had been the source of his terror. Molly swallowed gently.  “Sherlock,” she began, “Did you think I-“

She never got the chance to finish her sentence. Sherlock took a step forward and, grabbing her face with both hands, crashed his lips to hers with impressive ferocity. His momentum drove Molly’s stunned form backward for a few stumbling steps, until she found herself pressed firmly between the wall of the flat and Sherlock’s body. 

She quickly recovered from her momentary shock, and gripped the front of his shirt tightly with both hands as she moved her mouth with his, eagerly returning the kiss. When they finally pulled apart, Sherlock briefly met her gaze, his blue eyes electric with tears. He rested his forehead against hers, moving his hands gently from her jaw and resting them on the back of her neck.

“I lost you. I lost you, and I’m so sorry,” he murmured, the faint tremble in his body creeping into his voice. Molly’s breath hitched. “But you didn’t, “ she whispered, gently running the back of her fingers over his cheek. “You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m okay.”

He didn’t seem to hear her as he continued. “I was so careful. So careful. You were never out of my sight. And then, suddenly, you were gone. You were gone,” he breathed, his fingers flexing slightly on her nape.

Molly furrowed her brow in fleeting confusion, and then gasped softly as realization dawned.

“You’ve been following me,” she exclaimed, pulling her face back to stare at him. “It was _you._ This whole time, wasn’t it?”  She looked at him incredulously. “You bloody git!” she exclaimed, slapping his chest with both hands. “I thought I was being followed! I thought you were…that you were… I thought you were HIM!” she cried. “I was TERRIFIED!”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I was protecting you,” he said, his tone defensive. “If Moriarty is truly alive… then he isn’t going to make the same mistake twice,” he continued tersely. “I needed…I needed to make sure…” his voice faltered for a moment. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I needed to make sure you were safe,” he declared roughly. “I’ve lost…in all of _this,_ I’ve lost… too much. I can’t afford…” His voice trailed off as he drew in his breath sharply and snaked his arms around her waist. He dipped his head to her shoulder and turned to press his face into the soft curve of her neck.

“Your loss would break my heart,” he murmured against her skin.

Molly’s eyes welled up again, and this time she made no effort to contain her tears as they spilled down her cheeks. She brought her arms up around his shoulders and rested her hands on the back of his head, stroking his scalp softly, relaxing her body against his in the stillness of the flat.

The silence was eventually broken by the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs. “Sherlock –“ John called out, bursting into the sitting room. He pulled up short when he spied Sherlock and Molly, tangled together against the wall.

“Oi, Sherlock, we have a-“ Greg was saying as he ran into the back of John’s stalled form. He glanced over to where John was staring and let out a relieved shout.

“Molly! Oh my God, are you okay?” Greg exclaimed. Molly smiled. “I’m okay, Greg, yeah,” she said quietly. Sherlock lifted his head carefully, making sure to keep his face turned away from John and Greg as he discretely wiped at his eyes.

“There may have been a slight…misunderstanding, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said roughly, his back still partially turned away from the men.

Molly grinned. “I thought I was being followed,” she explained, noting the confusion on poor John and Greg’s faces. “So I took a detour.” She giggled. “Turns out I was running from the wrong sociopath.”

John’s face broke into a slow, understanding smile, and he laughed. “Yeah, I can see how you’d make that mistake,” he said, grinning. “Though it looks like you may have been better off if you had kept running.”

“John, don’t you have a pregnant wife you should be out buying ice cream and pickles for?” Sherlock snapped, pushing his hands into his pockets and finally turning to face his friend.

“I do, but some utter bastard dragged me away from her, all because he doesn’t know the ins and outs of properly stalking a woman.”

“Well then, I blame myself. Based on your past reputation for numerous female conquests, I suppose it would have been wise for me to consult with you on the matter–“

“Alright, alright, belt up, you two, “ Greg interrupted. He sighed heavily and glanced at Molly. “We searched your office as soon as Sherlock reported you missing,” he said. He reached into his pocket and handed her mobile phone. “Thought you’d want this,” he explained with a grin. “You have about 15 voicemails and nearly double the amount of texts, all from the same number. Odd,” he mused playfully, staring at Sherlock, who’s face had turned a lovely shade of pink.

“Well, thank you for your service, Grant,” Sherlock snapped. “But I think I can take it from here.” He quickly ushered John and Greg to hallway, ignoring their protests as he shut the heavy wooden door in their faces. He leaned against the door and sighed, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, banging it softly off the wood a few times for dramatic affect.

Molly smiled. “Hmm, looks like I have a few voicemails to listen to,” she teased. He opened one eye and peered at her. “If you would be so kind as to delete those, and perhaps never mention this incident again, I would be forever in your debt,” he groaned.

“You already ARE forever in my debt. Remember the whole “help me fake my death” thing?” Molly exclaimed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked as he made his way back to her. “Well then,” he murmured, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her flush to his body. “I’ll just have to think of another way to work off my arrears.”

Molly lowered her lashes coyly. “I have a few ideas,” she breathed against his lips before pressing them gently against her own.

As they deepened their embrace, they seemingly became unaware of their surroundings and all other external stimuli. Molly didn’t even notice that she had dropped her mobile on the floor, let alone that she had an incoming text message.

The screen illuminated briefly, displaying words from a blocked number, words that no one in 221B Baker Street would read for several more hours.

_Did you miss me? I missed you._

_Don’t worry, Molly love. I won’t miss again._

 

 

 


End file.
